


Night of the Living Scungilli Man

by gyldenstern



Category: Last Podcast on The Left (Podcast) RPF
Genre: A Love Letter to Slenderslash, Crack, Lemon, Other, Scungilli, unbetaed in the spirit of wattpad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:28:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25522105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gyldenstern/pseuds/gyldenstern
Summary: It was supposed to be a joke. It was all supposed to be a joke, but the problem with jokes is that once you add ritual, they're no longer jokes. They become something else. Something more powerful.
Relationships: Henry Zebrowski/The Scungilli Man
Comments: 3
Kudos: 8





	Night of the Living Scungilli Man

Henry had gone straight home after that fateful Friday recording, eager to begin his night of smoking hog's legs and drinking stinky whiskey with HIS WIFE. When he got home, however, Natalie and Wendy were nowhere to be found. 

"We left to go pick up calamari. Be back soon." said the sticky note pressed to the refrigerator door. 

"Hm, that's odd." mused Henry to himself as he rummaged through his fridge for a pre-whiskey beer. Natalie definitely didn't eat calamari, but perhaps she was grabbing some for Wendy. Henry smiled. Wendy would look so cute tearing apart calamari rings with her tiny jaws. 

He fixed himself a plate of leftover spaghett, and settled down on the couch. While he ate, he rolled himself up a fat log of that sweet, sour, sticky icky OG Girl Scout Afghani Berserker kush. His beer gone, he poured himself a thick glass of Garrison Brother's scotch. He sipped slowly, letting the amber-tinted liquid slide down his gullet. He puffed on his baby's arm-sized joint, and let the pungent smoke fill the air as it comfortably addled his brain. A documentary about missing people played in the background. He sank into the couch. He was proud of the work they had done today— Slenderman was clearly a ridiculous topic, but Marcus had somehow found enough bon mots to fill an entire episode with interesting details. The Scungilli Man joke had been a hit, and he was sure he would wake up the next morning to dozens of Instagram notifications of The Scungilli Man artwork. His fans loved him. His business partners loved him. His wife loved him. 

About an hour into his private libations, the beer caught up to Henry. He went to the bathroom to take a piss. As he relieved himself, he noticed two new old-style candelabra candles on his bathroom counter, each holding a long, black, taper candle. 

"Huh, I guess Natalie lit these for me before leaving. Romantic," he said to himself. While washing his hands, he was struck by an almost supernaturally strong urge. He flicked off the light, leaving only the fluttering glow of candlelight to illuminate his reflection. 

"The Scungilli Man," he said, staring back at his own glittering black eyes. 

"The Scungilli Man,"

"The Scungilli Man,"

"The Scungilli Man,"

"The Scungilli Man,"

"The Scungilli Man,"

"The Scungilli Man,"

"The Scungilli Man," he paused this time, his child-brain fear of Bloody Mary creeping in sideways. No turning back now though. 

"The Scungilli Man," he said for a ninth time, and a massive crack of lightning and thunder lit up the bathroom. For a brief second, Henry's reflection looked like he was wearing a dark bandalero and — was that an ascot? 

He screamed, flinging the bathroom door open, half running out to his living room. What he saw out there made him sick to his stomach. 

The same plate where his spaghett once resided held no more trace of that sweet sweet pasta, not even any red sauce. In its place instead was a pile of grease-slick onions, and tiny chunks of seafood that glistened in the light. On the television, his documentary had somehow had the subtitles switched to Italian.

"Natalie? Babe? Cmon, this isn't funny," he groaned, calling out and praying that his WIFE would answer. 

"Whatever it is that I did, I'm— I'm sorry for everything," he called out tentatively. No answer. Shakily, he stepped out from around his coffee table. On the floor, leading down the hallway, were tiny droplets of olive oil, a few rogue onions splattered here and there. Every luscious hair on his body, standing on end, Henry slowly started following the trail, which ended right outside his closed bedroom door. 

"Babe, cmon," Henry said as he approached the door, nearly sobbing. "Natalie, please, I love you, don't do this to me— " 

He felt the compulsion, watched his hand in slow motion as it slowly turned the doorknob (slick with oil) and opened the door. 

On his marital bed was a shambling, shadowy figure in a wide hat and a dirty boater's shirt. Henry opened his mouth to scream, but no noise came out. He tried to run, but his feet wouldn't move. He wanted to pass out, but his heart mercilessly kept beating in his chest. 

Slowly, The Scungilli Man crooked his finger and beckoned Henry to join him, making direct eye contact. His eyes were yellow, and impossibly tiny for his round, bulging face. The Scungilli Man's eyes were horrible to behold and impossible to look away from. Henry felt his head spin and his sense of his footing give way. He shambled towards the Scungilli Man, hypnotized against his will. 

The Scungilli Man slowly patted his lap, and Henry fell into it as if he had been pushed.It knocked the wind out of him, and to his horror The Scungilli Man began to rub his back in slow, heavy circles. 

"Please, just let me go," Henry gasped, fighting to speak every word. 

"No, no, no," croaked The Scungilli Man. "You made me, now I get to grip on ya," 

And grip on him he did. He slid his greasy paws all over Henry's back, slipping underneath his shirt. His soft hands pressed onion-scented oil all around Henry's torso, massaging it deeply into his skin. Henry screwed his eyes shut, trying to thrash out of The Scungilli Man's oppressive grip. He felt himself get flipped onto his back, and the weight of The Scungilli Man on top of him. 

"This— was— all— a— joke— ," Henry wheezed. 

"Jokes don't have rituals, Henry Thomas," whispered The Scungilli Man into Henry's ear. "And now, you get to see what your rituals hath wrought— " 

Henry was frozen with fear, completely unable to open his eyes or move away. Slowly, he felt a thick, wet, muscular appendage slide over the side of his face, the unmistakable texture of suckers clasping onto his pink cheek. With horror, Henry realized that he could still smell the hot sticky breath of the Scungilli man, which could only mean that the tentacled appendage was his tongue— oh god, oh no— 

"HENRY," Natalie yelled. 

Henry jolted awake with a start, still on the couch. He sat up, and onions dribbled down his naked torso. 

"Henry, if you're going to fall asleep in the living room while eating, could you at least not pick foods that are gonna stain the couch?" Natalie sighed, tossing a washcloth at him. "I'm going to go take a shower." 

"I'm sorry for everything baby!" Henry called after her as she walked down the hallway. He was relieved. It had only been a nightmare, a mere mix-up in his brain from recording earlier that day. The Scungilli Man wasn't real, he had simply made him up for a bit on his show. Nothing could hurt him, or Natalie, or their beloved Wendy; who was now eating one of the soft oily onions that had fallen from his dinner plate. Henry rolled over, scooping his doggy daughter into his arms for kisses. He snuggled with Wendy for a few minutes before reality hit him. 

If The Scungilli Man wasn't real— how was it that he had woken up, covered in what else but— scungilli?

**Author's Note:**

> henry if you're reading this: fuck you marble hornets is good


End file.
